I am desperately trying to get the writing bug. I am not catching it. Therefore, I sit and whine and mope about not writing and then when I go to write, I can't access it. I have very little to report. I could tell you about my job, but that's gotten me fired before. I could make up stories about vacations and fabulous relaxing retreats in Europe, but none of that will ever happen to a girl like me. I could describe my garden in detail, but I think it's wilting a little bit. I could chat about me me me, but really, that's very ego-centric.

Everything that gets me upset gets everyone else upset, too, and half the time, lots of other people have written about being upset in the same way I would describe my upsetness, so that's out. Yes, Bush is bad. Yes, I am voting for Obama. Yes, I am disturbed how racist many voters are. Yes, teenage vampire whores are causing our children to suffer from ADD and PTSD and OCD and Asperger's. Meh. Whatever.

Here's the raw deal, I think. I've lost all my creativity to humdrum living. It's no one's fault but my own. I work myself into exhaustion, save just enough energy to knit, and the rest of my waking hours are spent wishing for the weekend to come and get me the hell up out of this rut. I need a break, man. Or a great big fat doobie.

Also, this article depresses me, despite my 9 pound weight loss. I think I'm just going to be fat forever, dammit.